I woke before dawn, to a stiff neck and the almost painfully cold feeling that precedes the rising of the sun. The sky was still dark, and the east-facing window reflected my own image back at me, an eerie outline in the light of the small reading lamp beside my chair. My cup sat empty on the table beside me. Lifting it, I rose jerkily to my feet and made my way back into the kitchen, craving the comforting warmth of a whistling kettle and a fresh pot of tea.

It was while I was sitting there, listening to the silence of the house with my cold hands wrapped around the steaming cup, that the idea first came to me. Since Saturday I had been worried by the fact that I could not control what was happening to me—that I could, in short, regress at any time, in any place, wandering around the village in full view of everyone but oblivious to all. The problem seemed to be that the 'flashbacks' came at random, without warning, giving me no chance to prepare myself for the experience.

But what if I could prepare myself? What if I could find some way of triggering the flashbacks myself, when I wanted them, and suppressing them when I did not want them? If I was in fact dealing with memories—with scenes generated by my own mind—then I ought to be able to find some way of 'remembering' upon demand.

It was at least worth a try, I told myself. And now was the perfect time for such an experiment. I was safely installed in my own house, bolstered by the false bravado that comes from being not fully awake, and in the event that I did wander out of the house, I was at least fully dressed in the faded blue jeans and rumpled T-shirt that I used for painting. I was respectable. Besides, it would be hours before anyone in the village woke up.

Having convinced myself of the practicality of my plan, I spent the next several minutes rummaging through my disorganized cupboards in search of a candle. I had read somewhere that candles were essential to self-hypnosis. I finally found the stump of one buried in the cutlery tray, and set it to stand in a shallow saucer. Taking my seat at the scrubbed table, I set the candle before me and lit it, holding my breath.

The flame flickered expectantly, dipping and dancing in the currents of air that played round the silent room. My entire world seemed reduced to that single point of light, that tiny, wavering, mesmerizing flame, radiant in the near darkness. I kept my eyes fixed upon it, staring and concentrating, while in my mind I kept repeating a single thought: / want to remember. I want to remember. Over and over again, like a movement from Handel's Messiah, insistently, monotonously purposeful. / want to remember. I want to go back....

The air swept singing past my ears, and the candle flame dipped sharply in response.

'Have you not finished your draft yet?' Rachel asked in amazement. 'The market has started already, and we'll be missing the best buys,'

I drained my cup guiltily, nearly choking on the strong wine. "I am sorry,' I apologized. 'I was thinking.' 'You do too much thinking. In this house, that can only lead you into trouble,' she said, smiling at me from the doorway while she adjusted her heavy cloak, drawing the hood over her bright hair. 'The rain has stopped, at least, and the sky is clearing. It promises to be a fair day.'

I left my own hood down. I liked the feel of the wind in my hair, especially the clean wind that followed a late-spring rain. My dark-blue cloak was worn, and mended in places, but the dress beneath it was new, and I was looking forward to a morning away from the house and my uncle's influence. Unbolting the kitchen door was like unlocking a prison cell, and my smile was wide as I followed Rachel across the back garden toward the road that would lead us away from the house, away from the village, to a marketplace full of people and laughter and life.

Fifteen

The market town of Wexley Basset lay four miles to the east of Exbury, on the Marlborough road. We were not the only travelers on that road— three times we were passed by carts bearing people and produce to market, and a little farther on we ourselves passed a young lad leading a gentle brown cow and her soft-eyed calf. The temptation to speak to people was great after my weeks of solitude, but I followed Rachel's example and kept well to the side of the road, my eyes demurely downcast.

That was the hardest part, waiting until the strangers had moved on, or fallen behind, so that I could once again lift my head and drink in the scenery that surrounded us. Freedom was a new and heady wine to me, and the fresh scent of rain-soaked wildflowers blew the bitter smell of despair from my nostrils and made me forget for a moment the hopeless uncertainty of my situation.

The road was straight as an arrow's flight, straight as a Roman road, with deep ruts washed smooth by yesterday's rains. To the right of us lay level fields of new-planted wheat and fenced enclosures dotted with sheep; to the left the broad green sweep of Wexley Down and the rofling chase beyond. In my grandfather's time, Rachel told me, the first King Charles had himself hunted there, cantering after his hawks with his nobles at his heels and half the village tumbling after. It made a romantic and colorful picture, and I was so busy re-creating it in my imagination that Rachel had to speak twice in order to get my attention.

'Not long now,' she told me. 'You'll be able to see it when we get to the top of this hill.' And then the sun came out from behind the blanket of clouds as we crested the hill, and I got my first glimpse of Wexley Basset.

The markets of my memory were city markets, London markets, crammed into narrow streets or cobbled squares, with hoarse-voiced vendors hawking their wares and all around me the relentless press of people, people everywhere. It was a pleasant change to see the bright-striped awnings gaily ringing round the weathered market cross, and the sunlight beating cheerfully down upon the market square. There were crowds here, too, to be sure, but these were friendly country folk, their voices clear and plain, with honest faces scrubbed red by the wind and weather.